Thump
by Lemo Smith
Summary: Thump. The sound of something hitting the ground. For John, it's the sound of something precious to him being lost forever. My first Sherlock fic, so be nice. MAJOR spoilers for 2x03, rated because of John's potty mouth. Slash if you squint really hard.
1. Chapter 1

**I just watched the final episode of Sherlock, season 2. And I must say, this is like a treasure trove for plot bunnies, though the number of Reichenbach fics I have seen so far is rather disappointing. **

**Cue me writing my own Reichenbach fic.**

**This is written by me, and also edited by my bestest buddy Beersmoo. It's time we both made a contribution to the fandom that is Sherlock isn't it? Nod your heads now. She helped me angst this baby up to Anne Frank proportions. Thanks (wo)man!**

**Though I do love me some slash, this fic doesn't seem to have any. Yet. _Yet._ Should I expand this or just turn my other bunnies into their own stories? I NEED YOUR OPINION, a.k.a PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW. I know what you Sherlockians are capable of, I've seen it myself. =.=**

**Warnings: This fic can be a little sad. ****And there are some swears, so it's not very clean either.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>The goddamned cab <em>finally <em>arrives after what seems like forever and John pulls out the wad of bills-he didn't bother to count-that was stuffed in his pockets and thrusts them in front, letting the disgruntled cabby pick up the bills that fall from his cupped hands. Despite his initial haste to get out and find Sherlock, John gets out calmly (or as calmly as he could when his entire body seems buzzing with adrenaline) and _closes, not slams _the door.

John has no idea where to go from here, and if he did he would have run the second he was out of that cab, find and possibly save Sherlock, bring the idiot back to 221B and have everything back to normal. They would have a cup of tea or two, John would lecture Sherlock on his stupidity, Sherlock would get bored and then they would go on another case and he would chase Sherlock everywhere again.

John heads right and picks up his phone, which has been buzzing in his jeans since he got out. He hopes to God that it's Sherlock, or Lestrade, or even Moriarty that calls. He doesn't know what he's thinking, really, he just wants a clue as to where that tall pale man could be now so that _he could be there too_.

"Hello?" He asks, and begins increasing his pace, from a brisk walk to a jog that borders on running.

A deep and familiar voice replies, "John," and John feels so relieved that he doesn't know what to say, _Where are you _or _What the hell is happening now _or _Come on, let's just go back to Baker Street and figure out what to do next from there, _but he settles for simply asking, "Hey Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came from," Sherlock commands.

"No I'm coming in-"

"Just. Do. As I ask," Sherlock pleads, and he sounds so desperate that John can't quite believe his ears. He stops dead in his tracks.

"Please." Okay, John knows that things are serious when Sherlock begs you for something. He quickly obeys, swiveling around and walking back the way he came.

"Where?" John asks, and his curious tone is laced with concern and worry. He turns his head left and right, looking everywhere for a sign of dark curls or a darker trench coat with an upturned collar or a blue scarf, just something that looked like Sherlock.

"Stop there."

"Sherlock-"

"Okay look up, I'm on the rooftop." _Why does his voice sound so dead? _John feels something settle in his stomach as he dreads what he will see when he turns his head upwards, and hesitates for a fraction of a second before doing so.

The first thing that comes out of his mouth is a cross between "No" and "Oh god".

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><p>John blinks several times to clear his vision, as if what he's seeing is just some dirt in his eye that's in the shape of a man in a coat. The worry that had never really quite left begins to morph into panic, and he only knows that because he can feel the phone shaking slightly on his ear.<p>

All of John's senses are focused on Sherlock: Sherlock's voice coming out of the phone (_oh God why does he sound so final about what he says_), Sherlock's silhouette against the afternoon sun (_why are you standing on the edge get away from it already_).

"I-I can't come down so we'll-we'll just have to do it like this." _Like what? Like what, Sherlock!_

John's first attempt at speaking doesn't produce any sound, just him mouthing the word. So he tries again.

"What's going on?"

"An apology."

Feeling sick that after all they've been through and _he_ of all people is the one to reduce him to swallowing his pride, Johm thinks, _no, you don't need to apologize for anything, anything wrong you've done I'll forget it all as long you just _get off that fucking edge and come down right now-

Sherlock's lips open with a barely audible _pop_, but to John it's as loud as a gunshot.

"It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me; I invented Moriarty."

John strains to hear Sherlock over the blood that furiously roars through his ears. He could've sworn that Sherlock said he invented Moriarty, and surely Sherlock wasn't as big a git to play such a sick joke, to actually say that while standing like a tree rooted to that ledge.

But he _did_, and John realizes that he has to respond sooner or later. He steps back a bit more as if doing it would literally help him see the big picture or something.

"…Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

The words seem spit out, and not for the first time since this conversations started John wishes that he were close enough to see Sherlock's face right now. He can almost hear the pain and effort it took to say those words and he wishes he could give something to have Sherlock take back those god awful words.

"Sherlock…"

"The newspapers were right all along." John's heart sinks to the pit of his stomach, to join everything else that's already residing there. At the same time, he feels anger rise up within him, but he resists the urge to yell Sherlock to _cut the crap _because he's still on that very ledge, so piteously far away from safety. When he comes down and John is _absolutely sure_ that the prat is safe and sound, he'll give him a huge slap and berate him for worrying him and-

After a brief pause that feels like hours but could have only been seconds, Sherlock continues. "I want you to tell Lestrade.

"I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes-

"Okay shut up Sherlock," John mutters, because he just can't keep the words inside anymore. "Shut up. The first time we met, _the first time. We met. _You knew all about my sister right?"

"Nobody could be that clever." Sherlock deadpans.

"You could." John doesn't know anymore if he's trying to convince Sherlock or himself.

Sherlock lets out a breathless chuckle, as though he finds John's statement funny. John might have even believed it if it didn't sound so hollow.

The muscles near the crook of John's elbow are beginning to ache, as they are wont to do when being made to support an arm holding a phone for a prolonged time. John shifts the position of his elbow, but his phone never leaves his ear the entire time.

The next few words that come out of that bulky black phone causes what's left of John's world to shatter.

"I researched you."

The words are spoken in a tone of disbelief. As though Sherlock himself couldn't believe he was saying that.

John purses his lips in an effort to stop himself from screaming out. In frustration, in fear. He listens closely, waiting for Sherlock to continue explaining what has to be an elaborate lie, because he didn't think his heart could take much more.

"When we met, I discovered everything I could about you. To impress you," a small pause, "it's a trick."

John shakes his head in denial, and he closes his eyes, and he tries to _will _time to stop, just for a bit.

He can't take this in.

"No," John protests, "alright, stop it now." as he begins to make his way across the street.

"No, stay exactly where you are!" Even when every fiber of his being is telling him that it is wrong to do so, John obeys. Because no matter when, or where, Sherlock could tell him to stay in the path of an oncoming _bullet_ and John would obey.

John resists the urge to cry when he steps back.

"Don't move!" Oh, how he hates himself for making Sherlock sound so desperate to make John do what he says.

"Alright." Despite himself, John finds his hand in front of him, fingers splayed. He hears harsh pants on the other end of the line, and just barely makes out a tiny arm also outstretched.

John wonders, if he wished hard enough, that his hand would meet Sherlock's.

The next command comes, and it is said in a surprisingly steady tone.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

"Please," the sweet, sweet baritone that he never tires of hearing finally cracks as it pleads, "can you do this for me?"

"Do what?" _Anything, anything at all if you will just PLEASE step away from that ledge._

"This phone call, John. It's my note." Sherlock sounds calm once more, as if he was finally going to stop pulling this awful, this awful…

John's mind is racing. _Note? Why a note? A note for what? _He knows one possibility that is staring him right between the eyes but absolutely refuses to acknowledge it. It isn't any easier when Sherlock's sentence holds an air of finality.

_Oh god, oh god ohgodohgod no please he doesn't not that kind of note_

"It's what people do, don't they?"

_NO_

"Leave a note."

John has to bring the phone away from his ear now because he needs to shake his head again. He still can't accept it, he just can't, the great _Sherlock Holmes _does not do this. His flatmate does not do this. His partner does not do this.

But apparently his best friend does.

"Leave a note when?" He knows himself that the question is stupid and wonders if Sherlock is thinking, no, scratch that, he _knows _Sherlock is thinking that too. But he has to buy more time, maybe if he can get Sherlock to just _listen-_

"Goodbye, John."

"No- don't-" _Why are you stepping backwards, John? Go forwards, _forwards _god damn you-_

Sherlock drops his phone and you can hear it clatter to the roof on your end of the line.

"Stop-_SHERLOCK!_"

Then Sherlock leans forw-

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><p><em>The dark clad figure rushes towards the ground at an alarming speed, limbs flailing around while the head just continues to stare down.<em>

"_Sherlock," John mutters, staring with unseeing eyes as the body descends closer to the ground._

_Closer, closer._

_A soft thump is heard as the mass of bones, flesh, clothing and everything that was SHERLOCK reaches the pavement but to John it is not the sound of a man falling to the ground._

_It's the sound of something precious to him being lost forever._

_thump_

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><p><strong>Done :D<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not sure where I'm going with this as of yet, but I wanted to continue it, and so I am. This is just the product a little bunny that bounced around in my head until I shot it through the ear.**

**Disclaimer, because I don't think I put one in the first chapter: I don't own Sherlock.**

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><p><em>Sherlock falls.<em>

_Falling, falling…._

_Down the rabbit hole you go, Alice~!_

_And through the looking glass… what do you see?_

_I see… I see… a body on the ground. A not-so-alive body, in fact. Poor body._

_Look closer… What do you see?_

_I see… I see… a head of dark curls, and a blood-streaked face._

_The face... it's turning towards me...? It looks familiar... _

_And it looks… _

_Like…_

_SHERLOCK_

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><p>John wakes up.<p>

It's 1.24 A.M.

John turns over and tries to sleep.

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><p><em>Then Sherlock leans forw-<em>

_John runs over to him, faster than he would ever imagine possible, and miraculously gets there seconds before Sherlock reaches the ground._

_A hopeful smile lights up his face and he stretches out his arms, waiting to break Sherlock's fall._

_But Sherlock just slips through his fingers as if he's not even there. And to John's horror, he finds that the crack when Sherlock's skull hits the pavement is even louder when he's nearer._

_John looks up, and sees Moriarty's face smiling down at him from the roof. He smiles a gruesomely wide smile and blood drips out of his mouth, falling to the pavement. Opening his mouth (a stream of blood spatters down) Moriarty sings._

_"Mummy always said~! Not to lean over the edge~!"_

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><p>John wakes up.<p>

It's 1.44 A.M.

John turns over and tries to sleep.

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><p><em>John finds his hand in front of him, fingers splayed. He hears harsh pants on the other end of the line, and just barely makes out a tiny arm also outstretched.<em>

_Amazingly, he can feel fingertips brushing against his own. John quickly twists his grip, and immediately feels the presence of a warm palm against his own._

_He's caught Sherlock._

_"What..." John hears Sherlock's incredulous mutter. John grins triumphantly and says, "I've got you Sherlock. I've got you."_

_"Don't let go John, _please_..." Sherlock pleads, to which John replies assuredly, "Of course Sherlock, I'd never-"_

_But then John sees as his fingers ever so slowly begin to straighten themselves without his volition. _

_He hears Sherlock's cries of "John, John! Why? I thought you said-" over the phone, but he can't really hear it over the blood pounding furiously in his head. He grits his teeth and will his fingers to obey, and a few tears of frustration are squeezed out when they don't._

_Desperately, he tries flexing his hand, and realizes his mistake._

_Sherlock falls._

_Again._

_John can't bear to look when Sherlock's body hits that godforsaken pavement for the millionth time. He closes his eyes, bites his lip and covers his ears, not bothering to prevent his phone from breaking into pieces on the ground._

_Somebody gently removes his hands from their forceful press on his ears, and he flinches when that same person turns him around. He shakes his head back and forth when he hears the person whisper at him to open his eyes, but opens them anyway when he smells blood. He is still a doctor after all, and he feels concern for the mystery person quickly morph into panic._

_Sherlock is standing in front of him._

_Sherlock is standing in front of him. There is scarlet trickling down in rivulets from his temples, marring the flawless ivory skin._

_Sherlock is standing in front of him, but Sherlock is behind him too, lying in a pool of his-_

_John feels his throat close up, and tears well in his eyes. This Sherlock looks down at him with contempt, and he opens his dry mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out._

_"Turn around, John Watson, and look at what you have done." Sherlock says tonelessly._

_John jerks his head back, and his heart stops when he can see the other Sherlock's head look up from the ground to stare at him._

_"John..." The other Sherlock moans quietly. "John, how could you do this to me?"_

_"No, no, I-I didn't, Sherlock I'm sorry-"_

_John is forcefully, painfully spun back by his injured shoulder around and sees Sherlock rear back with a knife in his hand._

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><p>John wakes up.<p>

It's 1.50 A.M.

John lays on his back, and stares at the ceiling until dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm rather, scratch that, very disappointed and unsatisfied with this chapter. Any suggestions on how to lengthen or even change it? Please leave a review or PM me. (This is a total fail in my book.)

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><p>Some people claim that at this stage, they feel as though time has stood still for them while the rest of the world carries on.<p>

But John doesn't feel it.

He doesn't see it in the way he still has to shave every few days or so. (No matter what, John is _not _going to neglect his personal hygiene.) Doesn't see it in the fact that his rent, or rather, his share of it (one would think that he would bear the full brunt of the payment now that he is the sole occupant of the flat, but Mrs Hudson always seems to have problems with her hearing just when the matter is brought up) has even reduced as to it staying the same or even increasing (London is a city after all, and cities aren't getting any cheaper); not by much, just tiny chunks each month which Mrs Hudson says was accidentally claimed in last month's bill. But how can that be when each payment John offers is less than the last?

If anything, John would say that time has moved backwards for him. And this is seen in the way that his colleagues give him those insufferable looks of pity when they think he's not noticing (exactly the same as those looks when he was only a sod with an empty flat and a limp, just more pronounced because now he's the sod with an empty flat, a limp and an ex-flatmate-revealed-psycopath).

It's seen in the fact that no one, not Mycroft or hell, even _Lestrade_ seems to cross paths with him anymore. After all, no one wants to spend time with the same old boring ex-solider- just a little more of him chipped off, a little more of him frayed at the edges.

It's even seen (though John wishes the most that he didn't see this though) in the way not a few weeks after that, John's psychosomatic limp acts up with a vengeance, as if taunting him with its again-constant presence and daring him to try and lose it again. (He doesn't. It _is _rather hard to ignore a limp that's a mild twinge one moment and has you fumbling in the cabinets in the dark for your cane the next.)

The tendrils of regression latch themselves onto him, wrapping around his ankles, chaining his wrists and attaching to his leg and shoulder, and drag him back from a place filled with people, colours and sounds towards that godforsaken greyness where he can only watch from afar and wonder what the _fuck_ happened that got him here.

Slowly, slowly, John Watson morphs into what he once was, once upon a time before this brilliant man named Sherlock bloody (brilliant) Holmes came into his lacklustre life.

But he's too tired to go kicking and screaming anymore. He just plants his feet in the ground in a feeble attempt to delay the inevitable.


End file.
